The Plowman
His furrows are darkening into the hollow,
Lightly behind him the blackbirds follow—
By quick little journeys they follow and whistle.
Now a gossamer ship breaks away to the blue
(Who stands by the railing and waves adieu?)
All night it was moored to a thistle.
Who knows the glad business afoot on the by-way?
Who know the bold hopes sent adrift on the skyway?